


The Artist

by PythianPickles



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:18:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6761182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PythianPickles/pseuds/PythianPickles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>20-year-old Kaname Tatsuya loves painting the streets of Mitakihara City. One day he tries something a little different...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artist

**The Artist**

Tatsuya Kaname wasn't poor, by any means.

Sure, he spent long hours on the sidewalks of Mitakihara City, painting the buildings around him, and the occasional portrait. Sure, he took commissions from passerby. Sure, he usually had a small pile of cash by his side by the time he was ready to pack up.

That didn't mean that he was “a poor young man with nowhere to go”—which he'd just heard whispered by a passing couple. He glared after them as they left, attracting a few bemused glances from other people. Quickly, Tatsuya turned back to his current piece before things got awkward, but couldn't resist feeling like they were taking in his paint-splattered apron and slightly tattered jeans and making…similar judgements.

The other day he’d even gotten a “free” tube of paint from some well-meaning girl, a tube of bright, nearly-neon pink. He’d smiled and thanked her then, of course, but what construction company would ever decide to paint in _that_ shade of pink?

As if on cue, he heard the dry rustle of a bill as someone stuffed it into the can where he kept his brushes.

Tatsuya almost groaned. He could appreciate the money, not the pity. He was a responsible 20 year old, dang it!

It wasn't as if he lived off the paintings he made here on the streets; he just loved painting out in the open air, with his subjects right in front of him and a gentle breeze blowing. Of course, that didn't stop his mom from calling him every other day and reminding him to bundle up so he wouldn't catch a cold.

Even that could be excused, anyway; she was his mother after all. Even if he sometimes wished that he'd had an older sibling to deflect her overprotectiveness, a part of him couldn't help but find it endearing—though not so much when strangers from the streets looked at him with barely-disguised concern. Half the time he wasn't sure what was selling his paintings: their quality or his apparent lack thereof.

Were they just buying for the same reason a mother congratulated a child on their drawings? Tatsuya could still remember his mother’s reactions when he'd shown her his first masterpieces, things made at age four with crayon and the occasional dash of marker. Back then everything had been a masterpiece, from his studies of an interesting rock outside the house, his first landscape of the Park, to his play-by-plays of the latest adventures with Madoka.

Madoka.

Temporarily, at least, Tatsuya's irritation with the passerby shifted into nostalgia. His scowl became a fond smile.

As he sketched out the lower section of the building, he thought back to his days playing with Madoka. His mother had found him running around his room once, screaming with laughter and swatting at some unseen thing. Even if she'd been unable to see his imaginary friend, Tatsuya had certainly been able to—as well as feel her fingers when she tickled him.

And her outfit! Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure how he had possibly come up with it all—the wide flared dress, the gloves, and those shoes. He had a vague memory of asking Madoka once why she was dressed so fancily, but couldn't remember anything about her answer. And—

_What?_

Tatsuya stared at his sketch in consternation. His hand had been moving, sketching almost automatically while he'd thought about his childhood romps with Madoka, and…well. Tatsuya had been trained to keep tweaking his sketches until they were what he wanted, but he wasn't sure any amount of tweaking could rescue this particular...masterpiece.

The top of the drawing still fit the building in front of him well enough, following its tall and narrow outline. But Tatsuya could see exactly where his thoughts had shifted, because suddenly, halfway down the building, the outline of the thing ballooned out so that it looked like an umbrella that had spent a bit too much time in a hurricane, or maybe an upside-down wine glass.

For a moment his eyes flicked to his hand, the drawing; back to his hand. Then Tatsuya sighed, a sardonic smile appearing on his face as he reached for the eraser in his box. It really was crazy what could happen when he was distracted. His hand curled around the eraser, then froze. Tatsuya looked back to his sketch. _Really_ looked.

Yes, maybe what he had looked like a tortured umbrella, or some upturned glass. But maybe, he realized now, maybe…

Maybe it also looked like a wide, flared dress.

He picked up the eraser and moved back to his sketch, but this time with a brand new purpose. First he widened the top of his former cityscape, no longer concentrating on maintaining the strictly rectangular shape he’d tried for before. While he worked, he glanced at his paint rack, mentally taking an inventory of the colors there. Yes, there was the cadmium yellow, the red, a bit of white—and, right where he’d left it, the tube of paint that the girl had donated to him earlier. Tatsuya reached for it, resolving to thank the girl if he ever saw her again.

Looked like he’d have some use for pink today, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I've always thought that Tatsuya had a bit of an artist's touch - after all, that drawing of Madoka he scratched in the sand at the end of the series was sure better than anything three-year-old me could've done! I'm sure Madoka would appreciate his talent as well...maybe even enough to give him some divine inspiration.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
